


Shine Like Chrome

by Soul4Sale



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Spoilers for the ending, afterlife stuff, repentative Nux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 20:49:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4536825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soul4Sale/pseuds/Soul4Sale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was no way that Slit had left for Valhalla without him. The Blood Bag really must have been good at mimicking voices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shine Like Chrome

**Author's Note:**

> So, Todd and I noticed (after our third time seeing MMFR) that when Slit dies, Nux both hears him and seems confused by it. Like “Slit? Nah, can’t be.” and then he climbs out and is just like, “Blood bag? You’re not Slit.” So… That was basically the idea behind this, and it sort of took itself way out of proportion and so I hope you guys like it? I suppose it’s just another ‘last thoughts’ of Nux before he dies sort of thing. :/

Those words, slung at him like gasoline, only caught fire when Nux realized that it wasn’t even _him_ that Slit was yelling at. The Lancer had seen more bumbling attempts at success from his renegade Driver, maybe this traitorous action was just another blemish, another Larry and Barry gnawing on him from the inside out. No, those impossibly furious eyes were focused on the raging feral of a blood bag, who simply looked on in stunned silence (which wasn’t really all _that_ new). When he finally turned back to look at Nux, that grin that spread past the restraints of his lips did just as it always had; his breath was knocked from his lungs like it had always been, toes curled in his boots, and maybe he didn’t quite calculate the amount of ‘nudging’ he was doing. 

Mind returning, at least somewhat, after Slit’s new driver had been rushed to the Gates, he climbed back into the cab, his Blood Bag taking over. When the time came to work on the engine, however, there were no other thoughts than those tailored to such a wonderful machine. There was, however, one thing that burnt through him, and it didn’t have anything to do with the sudden heat from the plume of flames off to his right. He had been absolutely certain that he’d heard Slit’s voice, screaming his way to Valhalla. No, there was no way; they had _always_ said that they would go together. Even if he’d found himself out of the good graces of Immortan Joe, Slit would forgive him. Right? Of course, he would! He had probably done things far more insane than this, things that only earned him a frustrated roll of eyes, and maybe a haughty laugh and jab at his sickness.

Pulling from beneath the War Rig, he blinked slightly; _that_ was the blood bag, not Slit. But there was no mistaking he’d heard his voice. It wasn’t long before he was back in the cab, faced with thoughts slightly more important than who had been imitating his Lancer’s death cries.

The last thing he remembered was the fierceness in Rictus’ eyes as he ripped the engine from the front of the Rig, and pointing at Capable. ‘Witness me.’ Had been on his lips, and her stern look did nothing to fight the fear evident on his face. With a violent twist, metal crashed and burned around him, ending lives and pursuit in one fell swoop. Now, however, he found himself blinking awake, even if there was more pain wracking his body than usual. That wasn’t right, though… And neither was a bright glow of the moon above him. Slit had never made a torch so bright…

And then his mind was locked on the peculiar thought from earlier, his eyelids fluttering shut as if this thought alone took every little ounce of him. Slit… Slit wasn’t here. He knew Rictus was buried in here, somewhere, and he’d seen the guitar that signaled that Doof had to be around… But there was a distinct lack of laughter, cruel and sharp, of feet shuffling through the sand, of a rough hand wrapping around his neck as a threat before helping to tug him free of the Rig’s twisted carcass. Scrunched eyes finally popped open, and the calm serenity that had overcome the barely there Boy was gone in a second. A jerk sent a small spout of sand up, just to flop on his face, lifeless, and a bolt of pain had him repeating the motion in the opposite direction.

“Slit!” The name reverberated around the canyon, the only thing that was obviously still moving were the strange lizards in the sand. At first, it had been said with confidence; sure, there was no doubting that he was in huge trouble, but the plan had always been laid out. Four or five cries later, however, with the same crushing silence as a response, he was half-screaming, half-sobbing for any sign that his Lancer had waited for him. Another sob shook him to the core the moment that it rushed back to him. Nobody had thrown their voice and imitated Slit earlier.

“Valhalla!” Never in his life had the word felt so hollow. Gasping for breath, he was positive he’d taken that engine to the chest, even if it was still a pile of junk to the north of him. Or, at least, it seemed north. He was way too turned around right now, feeling dizzy as it all sunk in. Having always thought that everything Immortan Joe had ever said was true, he knew he would die in a blaze of glory, with Slit at his back (or side, or at least incredibly close), and everything would be shiny and chrome forever. There would be no more need to hide in rocky catacombs forever, they could be themselves, and roam, in the open, for all of eternity. As far as he understood it, eternity was quite a long time; way longer than his half-life would ever permit, maybe even longer than Immortan Joe’s life. 

Another nail in his coffin, he supposed. Forcing himself to stare at the unnaturally bright ball of reflected light above him, he almost imagined it turning around with that forced grin, laughing at his latest blunder. Slit had always told him that when he was too revved up, he fucked up more. But how could someone _not_ get pumped full of nitro with a Lancer like _Slit_ on their coupe? Sighing slightly as he looked away, he uselessly wiped at his nose, wrinkling it when he ended up with more sand in his mouth than out of his nose. Between one blink and another, however, everything started to change.

Pale as the moonlight had been, it now seemed to glitter around him, bouncing a thousand little lights off of the sand swallowing him up. Suddenly, there was the roar of a thousand War Boys, maybe more, and the distinct howling of an engine as it plowed through dunes on its mad search for a somewhat tamped down road. But all of this quickly faded out as there was a light kick, more a tap with a bootless foot, to the side of his head. Shaking himself free, he finally looked up, and what he saw left his ruined mouth agape and his throat drier than the desert around him. 

“Sl-slit?”

“Get up, Nuts.” The cruel grin splayed over the kneeling War Boy’s face was so familiar that Nux did as he was told without even thinking about it. No thoughts were spared on logic; Slit wasn’t there a second ago, and with what he’d saw of his crushed pelvis, he shouldn’t be able to leap to his feet at all, let alone this easily. What neither of them seemed to expect, however, was the eager way that the younger man threw himself into the other’s arms, knocking them both back. “Nux!” The exclamation was more out of surprise than real disgust, even as he pushed those cracked lips away from his face. Despite this, Nux was determined to pepper the other with kisses that dissolved into presses of his mouth to a strong jaw, a thickly corded neck, punctuating apologies.

“Shuddap, will ya?” Finally taking those lips in a long, drawn-out kiss, the Lancer smirked, his scarred cheek adding to the effect, “We gotta go, our ride’s here. Ain’t nobody else can drive it but you, Nux. Road’s open, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

The race to the new coupe, sleek and shinier than anything he’d ever seen, seemed fragmented and broken, and as the last wheeze escaped his throat, he gave a wild eyed grin, trapping his tongue between his teeth. Valhalla awaited them, just like he’d said.

**Author's Note:**

> Why do I enjoy doing this to myself? D: This is definitely not my first ‘is it real or is it the hallucination of a dying man’ story, probably won’t be my last, but shit… These always break my heart.


End file.
